


Another Girl's Paradise

by diablo77



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 08:03:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5998039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diablo77/pseuds/diablo77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg is back, and the Winchesters' world just got pretty strange. Something tells them she's behind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Girl's Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a contest in a fan group I'm in. There was a no-shipping rule so I had to keep the Megstiel in this on the DL, but it's there if you squint. The challenge was to make the characters wake up in a world where they are living normal lives for some reason; I got interpretive because I really just write fics for an excuse to bring Meg back anyway.

Sam turned over in the bed and rubbed his eyes. A warm slice of bright sun was cutting across his face. Strange…there was no sunlight in the bunker. Were they on a hunt? He often had mornings like this, even still – mornings where he forgot momentarily which bed he was sleeping in, in which town, which state. He pushed back the covers that were surprisingly comfortable and heavy for motel blankets. They should be thin and scratchy. Sitting up, his eyes cracked open, then snapped wide as he realized this was no motel room. It was too sturdy and personal in its furnishings, worn in a way that spoke of home, not use by countless travelers. What’s more, he was alone, in a room with a single bed and a closed door. “Dean?” he shouted.

The door swung open and his brother’s stricken face popped through its frame. “Where are we, Sammy?” he asked.

“I was gonna ask you the same question. And are you wearing _pajamas_?”

Dean looked down at the loose flannel shirt and pants he was wearing and shrugged. “So are you,” he said, and Sam glanced into a mirror mounted on the wall above the dresser. His pajamas were lighter cotton and striped, but they were definitely pajamas, and he was certain he’d never owned any like them.

He frowned. “What is going on here?”

Cautiously, the brothers edged through the doorway and down a hall, softly carpeted and bordered by a polished railing. Over the edge of it, they could see a comfortable-looking living room below them. This was definitely a house, and a nice one – nicer than the one they’d lived in when they were little, or any they’d been in since. There hadn’t been any weapons handy in the upstairs rooms, so they crept down the stairs in fighting stance, fists ready to take on whatever had put them here, if they found it. When they reached the landing, facing a heavy front door, they heard a knock from the other side.

The brothers stared at each other, wide-eyed. Finally Dean cautiously reached out and twisted the knob.

The door opened to what might have been a familiar sight: a petite woman with a heart-shaped face framed by dark curls, wearing a well-worn but perfectly fitted leather jacket. Except for two things: instead of a knife or a whiskey bottle, she was holding a freshly baked pie; and as far as the brothers knew, she was dead.

“Finally decided to join the living, huh? Nice jammies,” she said, thrusting the pie into Dean’s hands.

“Appropriate choice of words,” Sam muttered, as his brother reflexively threw the pie down the hallway behind them, as if it might explode.

“Hey! I baked that myself!”

Dean stared at her, mouth still open in shock. “What, you’re baking pies now?”

She shrugged. “Hey, a girl needs hobbies.”

“You are not a girl.”

Her smile twisted, became darkly playful. “Oh really? Then what am I?”

“A demon!”

She laughed, throwing her head back. “What, are you still drunk from last night? It’s me, Dean. I live next door. Just like always.” Her eyes lifted over his shoulder. “Hey there, Clarence.”

The brothers spun around to see Castiel standing in the doorway, smiling. “Good morning, Meg.”

“Cas?” Sam’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of their angel friend. “Where did you come from?”

Castiel gestured behind him down the house’s downstairs hallway. “My room.”

“Your…room.” Dean said this as if it weren’t a question, but his face said otherwise. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a memo I didn’t get here?”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You’re here, we’re here, we don’t know where _here_ is – Meg’s here – how are you not dead?” he turned to Meg. “I watched you die!”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for just watching.” She grimaced. “Anyway, I’m here now, so I guess we’re cool.” She pushed past him, heading down the hall. “I’m gonna see if I can salvage my pie. I spent all morning on that!”

Dumbstruck, Sam and Dean followed her down the hall to a kitchen, where she was trying to rearrange what was left of her pie on a counter. “It’s not as pretty as it was, but it’ll do,” she said without looking up. Stretching on tiptoes, she opened an overhead cabinet and pulled out a stack of plates. Producing a nasty-looking knife engraved with warding symbols from her boot, she cut four slices and scooped them onto the plates. “Try it,” she said, gesturing at them with the point of the knife, dripping with a red liquid that reflexes told them was blood even though logic insisted it was just cherry juice. “Hey, after the pie, we should play Twister! That was fun, wasn’t it Clarence?”

“It was,” said Castiel. “Although, your having a somewhat less corporeal form than the rest of us does give you a slight advantage.”

Meg grinned and punched him in the arm. “You’re just a sore loser, feathers. I’m good. I bet I could even beat daddy-long-legs over there.” She looked at Sam.

“Uh, we’re gonna pass on that for now,” Dean said, clapping Sam across the chest a little too hard. “My brother and me, we gotta step out for a minute.” He glanced out the window and noticed with a flood of relief that his beloved Chevy Impala was sitting in the house’s driveway. “Thank God my baby made it here, at least,” he murmured under his breath.

The brothers strode down the hallway and through the front door. “Hey, aren’t you gonna change out of your –” Meg called after them. The heavy door slammed. “–pajamas?” she finished, to the silent closed door.

On the front step, Dean looked down and realized what she’d been shouting. “Dammit,” he said.

“You wanna go back in and change?”

“Nah. Nah, we got clothes in the car. Let’s go.” He led his brother down the walk to where the car was parked. Dean was on a mission, but Sam had taken the time to glance at their surroundings and noticed something strange. The front yard didn’t look much like a front yard at all; there was “their” house, a big beautiful Victorian, and next door a cute shotgun cottage that must have been Meg’s. But there was no neighborhood, no sidewalks or lawns. The space around them was more of a courtyard, full of manicured grass and hedges that were lovely but somehow impersonal. A huge, institutional-looking building rose in the foreground.

That’s when he noticed the buzzing. It was a steady hum that, in the otherwise silent yard, quickly seemed deafening. He caught his brother’s arm. “Dean, you hear that?”

Dean stopped short and examined a dark, moving cloud hovering above a hedge. “Bees?” he said incredulously.

They made their way to the car, but the closer they got, the more they realized that something had happened to it since they’d driven it last. Chunks of thick, dark glass were imbedded in the dinged and scraped front end, as if it had been driven through a window or a glass wall. “What in the hell?” Dean said, running a finger through a deep scratch. When he opened the driver’s side door, he found the seat to be pushed up too far for his body to even fold itself into the car. Pressing the lever, he slid it back and climbed in, only to discover a jug of Borax sitting on the floor next to him. The chemical fumes stung his nostrils as he lifted it. “Sammy, something’s weird here.”

“You think?” Sam said as he climbed in beside him. As they pulled out of the driveway, a road suddenly appeared where there had been none before, only rolling hills of courtyard grass. The scenery changed quickly. The courtyard gave way to a grimy alley, a desolate truck stop, the exterior of a worn hotel. All of it vaguely familiar, none of it making sense out of context. On a stretch of barely paved road outside a tumbledown cabin in the woods, Sam suddenly said, “Stop the car.”

Dean hit the brakes, and his brother swung open the passenger door and climbed out. As Sam walked toward a fixed point on the horizon, Dean put the Impala in park and followed him.

“We’ve seen this before,” said Sam, bending at the waist to examine something. As Dean moved closer, he realized it was a doorknob, nearly indistinguishable from the air around it. Sam twisted the knob, and a door opened in the air, showing a slice of seemingly endless hallway studded with doors exactly like it. “Dean, this is Heaven.”

Wide-eyed, Dean patted himself down. “Did we die? Again?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam said. His eyes narrowed. “These are memories. We were there. But… I don’t think they’re ours.” His brother’s eyes met his as realization flashed across his face.

They climbed back into the car and spun a U-turn, roaring back toward the house. They slammed through the front door so hard that it smacked the wall behind it, and Meg and Castiel jumped up from where they’d been sitting at the kitchen counter, the pie still untouched between them.

“We’re in Heaven,” Sam said, not bothering with any kind of greeting.

“Yes…” Castiel said slowly.

“But not our Heaven.”

Meg shook her head. “No. No, you’re right. This is my Heaven.”

Dean stepped around his brother to face them. “How are you in Heaven? You’re a demon! Demons don’t go to Heaven!”

“News flash. Not a demon anymore.” She smiled, a familiar sassy grin. “Turns out that whole sacrificing yourself for the good of humanity thing has its perks.”

“But you still look like – that’s not even your body!”

“It is now. That’s kind of how Heaven works. I got to keep this one ‘cuz it was my favorite. I had all my best memories in here.” She looked down at her small, curvy form and smiled. “I even got my hair back.”

“Meg,” Sam said firmly, “why are we in your Heaven?”

She sighed and pushed her hair back, climbing back onto her kitchen stool. “When I got here, they said I could have anything I wanted. This is what I wanted,” she said. She grimaced, as if the words tasted disgusting. “The only times I was ever really happy were when I was with you three chuckleheads.”

“But you can’t bring living people into your Heaven.”

Her face paled, drew blank. Next to her, Castiel stared at the floor.

“So what is this then?” Dean asked. “Some kind of a spell?”

Meg’s mouth fell open. “I can’t do that! Even as a demon I couldn’t – you’d have to be a witch or something. Or –” she glanced to her side, a strange expression settling on her face. “An angel…”

            “Cas?” Dean said. The angel nodded.

            “I’ve come to visit a few times since I found out she was here,” he said, still staring at the floor. “She kept asking about you two, though. I thought I could bring us all here, just for a day…” he stared up into his friend’s eyes. “She was our friend. She gave everything for us.”

            _Friend._ It was strange to think that word, after all the times Meg had been an enemy; the sinister things she’d done as one of Lucifer’s soldiers, how close she’d come to killing them. But in the end, that was what she’d been, wasn’t it?

            “Meg,” Sam said, his voice softer now. “You have to let us go.”

            Meg nodded. “I know,” she said. She rose quickly and to Sam’s surprise pressed her body against his. Stunned, he stood still for a moment with his arms at his sides, then hugged back. He could feel a faint shimmer of grace when she pulled away and hugged Dean, too. “It was good to see you again.”

            Dean gave a grunt of affirmation. “You’ll probably see us again, sooner than later,” he said, glancing around. Meg knew what he meant, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she turned to the counter and grabbed what was left of her pie, pressed it into his hands. “For the road,” she said. “I promise I didn’t do anything to it.”

            A bright light sprung up between them in a line across the floor, wiping their vision to blank white. They raised their hands to shield their eyes, but they couldn’t see anything anymore.

            Sam turned over in the bed and rubbed his eyes. They still stung from a brilliance he must have dreamed, because his bunker room was characteristically dark and windowless. He rolled from his bed and padded down the hall to the bunker’s kitchen, where he thought he heard the sounds of his brother rummaging through the drawers. “Dean?” he called out.

            “Yeah?”

            Still rubbing his eyes, Sam slumped through the doorframe. “Did you have a strange dream last night?”

            Dean turned from the drawer where he was sifting through a tangle of silverware. “Now that you mention it…” he turned his eyes toward his brother then stopped, Sam’s eyes following his to the stainless-steel countertop in the middle of the kitchen. There, wrapped in plastic, a nasty-looking demonic knife stained with cherry juice resting on the plate beside it, was half of a perfect cherry pie.


End file.
